Aftermath
by Seraph2
Summary: A continuation of The One Man Left Awake. After the strike, four newsies plan to meet again in ten years. But a lot can happen in a decade... Spot's chapter is up!
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: All of the newsies and other characters from the movie belong to Disney. All original characters belong to me.   
  
A/N: This story is a sequel/continuation of "The One Man Left Awake". Thanks to Jack Kelly's Lady for suggesting that I continue, and to CiCi for giving me the idea to tell each newsie's story separately.  
  
The day after the strike, Denton and Roosevelt held a party for all the newsies at Tibby's (where else?). On that day, Jack Kelly, Spot Conlon, Racetrack Higgins, and David Jacobs made a pact to meet at Tibby's in ten years. But a lot can happen in a decade... 


	2. Jack's Story: Leaving Manhattan

Disclaimer: All of the newsies and other characters from the movie belong to Disney. All original characters belong to me.  
  
To sugarNspice: Thanks for the reviews of this story and The One Man Left Awake. Here's another chapter for you!  
  
* Two months after the strike. *  
  
Jack Kelly tapped lightly on Sarah's window. He had slept on the fire escape again, just for old time's sake. Sarah, still fast asleep, didn't stir.  
  
"She looks like an angel," Jack said to himself, staring at Sarah's light brown ringlets, which were draped over a white, lace-trimmed pillow. He rapped on the window again. This time, Sarah's head lifted from the pillow with a start, and she quickly turned toward the window.  
  
When she saw who it was, Sarah sighed and opened the casement. "What are you doing here?" she asked, tugging on the neckline of her nightgown, trying to shield herself from Jack's prying eyes.  
  
"Just wanted to see my beautiful girl," Jack replied. Sarah smiled sadly. She used to be so thrilled when he said that.  
  
"Meet me up on the roof," she requested. "I have something important to tell you."  
  
Jack hurried up to the roof, but Sarah took her time. Slowly, she changed into a blouse and skirt. She remembered the last two months and all the time she and Jack had spent together. Finally, Sarah climbed up to the roof also.  
  
"Hey, sweetheart, you're looking mighty pretty this morning," Jack said, giving Sarah a hug and a light kiss on the lips.  
  
'Is that all he can compliment me on?' Sarah wondered, 'My looks?' "Jack," she said aloud, "there's something I have to tell you. It's really important."  
  
"Go ahead, baby," Jack encouraged, "I'm listening."  
  
"I met a young man about a week ago," Sarah began. She had gone over this in her head millions of times, so why was it so hard to say? "He's a factory worker---"  
  
"And let me guess, he wants to be a newsie," Jack interrupted with a grin. "Well, just tell him to come to me, Jack Kelly, the greatest newsie---"  
  
"No, Jack, that's not it at all!" Sarah shouted. "He had a cut on his arm from one of the machines, so I bandaged it, and then he took me out to dinner last night as a thank you...and he asked me to be his girl."  
  
"What?" Jack exclaimed. "The scabber! Trying to steal other peoples' girls! How dare he! What's his name, Sarah? I'm going to soak him so bad that he'll be seeing stars for a month. Why, I'll---"  
  
"I said yes!" Sarah screamed, her voice drowning out Jack's threats. As soon as he heard her, Jack stopped.  
  
"You said...yes?" he asked in disbelief.  
  
"Yes, I did. I told him that I would be his girl."  
  
"Sarah...why?" Why is he so much better than I am? Why do you want to be his girl and not mine?" Sarah could hear the disappointment and sorrow in Jack's voice, but she vowed not to give in.  
  
"Because, Jack," Sarah explained, "he doesn't just kiss me and call me beautiful. He actually listens to me and says I'm smart and generous and helpful. He says that maybe I can become a nurse someday!  
  
"And, Jack, as soon as he has enough money, he's going to go to college. He's going to do something with his life! Not just be a newsie and dream dreams that will never come true. He's going to MAKE his dreams come true!"  
  
"Who says my dreams won't come true?" Jack asked softly, staring out into the street below him.  
  
"Oh, come on, Jack," Sarah replied. "Santa Fe? When are you ever going to go there? Last time you couldn't even get on the train because you missed your newsies so much."  
  
"I couldn't get on the train because I missed YOU so much," Jack said firmly, placing his hands on Sarah's slender waist. Sarah pushed them away.  
  
"Well, now you don't have me anymore," she said decisively, "so you can go." Jack stared at Sarah for a long moment, trying to memorize her appearance: her long, wavy brown hair; her big, gorgeous eyes; the curves of her soft, white blouse. Then he turned, climbed down the fire escape, and walked to the lodging house. It would be ten years before he returned to the Jacobs's apartment.  
  
Two days later, Jack used his hard-earned money to buy a train ticket for Santa Fe. And this time, he actually got on the train. 


	3. David's Story: No Survivors

Disclaimer: All of the newsies and other characters from the movie belong to Disney. All original characters belong to me.  
  
A/N: Sorry, sorry, SORRY that this took so long to update! I don't really have an excuse...I was just procrastinating. I leave for creative writing camp on June 29 and won't get back till July 11, and we don't get any Internet access :(. Because of this, it will be awhile until I update again. Please leave a review so that I can read them when I get back!  
  
I'd just like to make on comment about this chapter. The only trains I've ever ridden are the ones at the Kate Shelley museum and a special Fourth of July train in Maryland, and the only train station I've ever seen is the one in the Harry Potter movies. Hence, the train station in this chapter is completely made up and probably isn't very realistic.  
  
Shout-outs:  
  
CiCi: I'm really sorry that I didn't give you a shout-out earlier! For some reason, your review didn't show up on the review page, and it took me a while to check my e-mail. I love you too! Here's the order that the stories will be in: Jack, David, Racetrack, Spot. Sorry that Spot's last, but that's the order that the newsies died in (I know...it's so sad) in The One Man Left Awake. Thanks for the review! You rock!  
  
Sweets Conlon aka Blink's Bitch: Cool penname! Thanks for the review! I don't like Sarah very much either---she's an okay person, but not the girl I would pair Jack with. Enjoy this chapter!  
  
Jack Kelly's Lady: Thanks for the review! It's strange---usually I'm a really happy person, but I like to write depressing stuff. Maybe you should read my story The Newsies in a Christmas Carol---there's a lot more humor and no deaths!  
  
covster: Unfortunately, Spot's will be the last story, because he died last in The One Man Left Awake. Thanks for the review! Hope you enjoy this chapter!  
  
sugarNspice: Thanks for the review! Sorry it took me so long to update!  
  
* Almost four years after the strike. *  
  
"Mama, I'm twenty years old, and I'm only going to stay in Santa Fe for two weeks. Nothing's going to happen," David Jacobs promised, kissing Esther lightly on the cheek.   
  
"I know, I know," Esther said, "but all mothers worry. It's just what we do."  
  
"Once I leave, you'll probably be too busy to worry," David comforted her. "You'll have Sarah's children to look after and Les to keep track of."  
  
"Yes..." Esther trailed off, staring through the apartment window to the fire escape where Sarah's sons Eli and Francis were playing. "Well, remember to tell Jack hello for all of us. And don't eat all of the cake on the train---that's for Jack's birthday!"  
  
"Yes, Mama," David said and then checked his pocket watch. "I'd better get going," he decided. "Don't want to miss the train!"  
  
"I love you!" Esther called as David dashed out of the apartment door.   
  
"I love you, too, Mama," he shouted back. He leaped down the apartment steps and began the walk to the train station. David could have ridden a trolley, but he preferred to be out in the fresh air. When Sarah's husband died in a factory accident two years ago, she had moved back in with the Jacob's, bringing her twin sons, now two years old, with her. With thirteen year old Les going to school and selling papers on the weekends and David living at home while he went to college, the Jacobs' apartment was quite full.  
  
"Hey, Davey," a newsie called. "Why haven't you been selling papes with us?"  
  
"I've been pretty busy, Boots," Dave replied to the now seventeen-year-old African-American newsie. "I'm leaving today to go see Jack."  
  
"In Santa Fe?" Boots asked, fishing through one of his pockets.  
  
"Yep," David replied.  
  
"Give him these, then," Boots said, handing David three glossy marbles. "It's almost his birthday, isn't it?"  
  
"Yep, his twenty-first," David affirmed. He glanced down at the marbles in his hand. "I can't believe you still carry these things around with you," he said.  
  
"Well, they come in handy sometimes," Boots replied. "Besides, there's a couple new newsies down at the lodging house, and I've been teaching them how to play marbles."  
  
"That sounds like fun," David said, momentarily wishing that he could be an impoverished newsie again instead of a journalism student.  
  
"Yeah, it is," Boots agreed. "Well, I'd better keep selling. Have fun in Santa Fe, and don't forget to tell Jack happy birthday for me!"  
  
"I won't!" David promised, and he resumed his stroll toward the train station.  
  
When he reached the station, David managed to find the platform for the next train to Santa Fe, New Mexico. It wasn't leaving for another ten minutes, but David decided to board anyway so that he could find a car without too many passengers in it.   
  
Finally, David found a compartment near the end of the train. There were quite a few other people in it, but most seemed to be middle-aged or older, and David decided that they probably wouldn't make very much noise. He found a window seat and pulled a book out of his pocket. He was supposed to read the book and write a summary of it for one of his college classes, and a train ride seemed like a good time to get it done.  
  
About three hours later, David had finished the book and decided to take a nap. Suddenly, the car bounced violently, shaking David awake.  
  
"My goodness, what was that?" a passenger asked. She was an older woman, probably around sixty years of age.  
  
"I'm sorry, ma'am," one of the porters apologized, "but the tracks are a bit uneven here. The train should stop bouncing---," the train jolted roughly again, "momentarily."  
  
David rolled his eyes. He hoped the ride home wouldn't be this agitated. He leaned back in his seat, trying to resume his nap, when the train was again sprung from the tracks. But this time, instead of coming back down on their tracks again, the wheels crashed onto the ground and the train began to roll sideways. The porter fell down in the aisle, and people toppled off their seats, rolling into each other. David could hear screams and cries from the other compartments.  
  
"What's going on?" he shouted at the porter.  
  
"I think that the train derailed," the porter replied, sounding panicked. The train flipped over, knocking the passengers from the floor to the ceiling, which was now resting on the ground. David's head slammed into a seat, and he blacked out. The train continued to roll. Seconds later, it made sickening crash into a ravine.   
  
The next day, the newsboys of New York were busy hawking the new headline. "Santa Fe train crash!" they cried grimly. "There were no survivors." 


	4. Racetrack's Story: Lost Dreams

Disclaimer: All of the newsies and other characters from the movie belong to Disney. All original characters belong to me.  
  
A/N: I know, I know...I haven't updated for a LONG time...I was in Boston...and then at my grandparents' house for a week...and then I was just plain procrastinating...sorry! Also, this chapter was difficult to write, so I'd really appreciate reviews and constructive criticism! Thanks!  
  
A/N 2: Because of FF.net's new pen-name policy, my name is now Seraph2. (Or, as I like to think of it, Seraph the Second.)  
  
Shout-outs!  
  
Legs: Thanks for reviewing this story and The One Man Left Awake! Here's what happens to Racetrack...  
  
MsJonyReb: That's an interesting suggestion...maybe Davey WILL return...I'm not sure yet... Anyway, thanks for the review!  
  
Warning: This chapter could be considered disturbing, and if you would prefer not to read it, please skip this chapter. I'll try to upload chapter four soon.   
  
* In 1907, eight years after the strike, around five o'clock in the evening. *  
  
Racetrack Higgins knocked softly on the lodging house door, praying that no one would answer, and yet hoping beyond hope that they would. Despite his fervent wishes, there was no reply to his knock. Sighing determinedly, he opened the door and strolled around the lobby. It was abandoned for the day; the newsies busy selling their papers and Kloppman running an errand somewhere.   
  
Racetrack wandered over to a table in the back corner of the lobby, lifting up one of its chairs. He turned the chair over, and his lips stretched into a quavering smile. There, just below the back, left-hand leg, was his name, etched into the wood with a pocketknife. This had been his chair, his table. The table where every night, no matter what, poker was played. Where cards were dealt, bets were placed, and money was lost and won. Usually, the money was won by Racetrack, a few extra cents every night to help him make ends meet. Racetrack sighed, wishing he had that kind of stability in his life now.  
  
He turned toward the lodging house staircase, a flimsy wooden structure that had withheld the pounding footfalls of adolescent boys for decades. Racetrack could clearly remember his days as a newsie, with Jack as his leader, when he would dash down the steps every morning, ready to con Weasel out of another two bits so that he could place his customary bet at the tracks. Then came Race's own days as a leader, when he was always the first person down the staircase, guiding his newsies to another day of profitable sales. Now, Racetrack climbed deliberately up the staircase, savoring each step, every creak of that faithful, well-worn construction.  
  
At the top of the stairs, he entered the bunkroom. As always, it was filled with fragile wooden bunks, topped with hard mattresses and thin sheets that did little to keep off the cold during New York's harsh winter months. And yet, the newsies had rarely complained about such hardships. Overall, they had been happy with what they had, glad to sleep under a roof instead of on the streets, to be surrounded by friends instead of enemies. Racetrack, too, had been happy. Even his graduation from the life of a newsie, the day he turned Manhattan's leadership over to Boots and entered adulthood, had been bittersweet, tainted by the thought of leaving the newsie camaraderie behind.  
  
Now, Racetrack realized that he never should have left. Sure, Boots had been a good leader, strong yet sympathetic, alert and compassionate. It was Boots who had the idea to start a sort of memorial for past newsie leaders on one wall of the bunkroom. There a card, the king of hearts, hung from a nail, commemorating the years of Race's gambling, generous leadership. And, on a nail to its left, hung a length of rope, a reminder of Jack's cowboy days and his famous rope-twirling tricks.  
  
Racetrack, though, had a different use for the rope. Slowly, reverently, he lifted it from its hook. It felt wrong, somehow, to remove a memorial for such an awful purpose, but Race knew, somewhere inside him, that Jack would understand. Jack, of all people, would sympathize with Race, would know how hard it was to live an existence full of despair and lost dreams, hopes from another life, washed away by time and the heavy hand of reality.   
  
Holding the rope, Racetrack walked slowly to the windowsill, thinking of the past few years, of his severe life after he had left the newsies. He had found a good job at the races, caring for the award-winning horses there. But even with this new source of income, Racetrack had placed more bets than he could pay off, and, slowly, he was pulled into a never-ending spiral of debt. Debt that had the Manhattan police on his trail, debt that made him quit his job, run from the tracks...run here. Run to the only home he could ever count on.  
  
And Race knew what he had to do. He couldn't stay here, couldn't accept the pity and charity of the newsies, young men who had once looked up to him as a teacher and mentor, yet he couldn't return to the crowds of Manhattan. He was no longer an honorable New York citizen, he would be thrown in the pen the instant a bull spotted him. So, there was only one thing to do.  
  
Racetrack Higgins stepped carefully onto the windowsill of the bunkroom, lifting the rope above his head and tying it securely to a rafter. Then he stepped back down and tied a loop at the other end. He slid the loop purposefully over his head, unable to turn back now. And, taking one final, deep breath, he jumped over the windowsill, feeling the rope burn as it tightened around his neck, squeezing his eyes shut in the desperate prayer that death would come quickly.  
  
PLEASE READ: Please, if you or someone you know is considering suicide, get help! I know you have heard this before, but I'm serious. Suicide is not the answer. So many people care about you, and you have so much of your life left to live. The world isn't ready for you to leave us yet. 


	5. Spot's Story: The Death of a King

Disclaimer: All of the newsies and other characters from the movie belong to Disney. All original characters belong to me.  
  
To BrooklynGrl: Yeah, getting rid of Sarah wouldn't be such a bad thing...thanks for the review!  
  
* In 1908, nine years after the strike. *  
  
Spot surveyed the workers, his chest swelling with pride as they marched in organized lines around the factory. "10 HOUR DAYS" and "MORE PAY" their signs proclaimed, and they chanted in unison, "Strike! Strike! Strike!" While their mantra echoed around the building and across the Brooklyn streets, Spot mused for a moment, thinking of the great newsie strike of 1899. He remembered the articles in the paper, the rally, the grand finale when Les proclaimed their victory from atop Jack's shoulders, and Snyder was escorted to the Manhattan Penitentiary, off to "make friends with the rats" as Crutchy advised. And, with sorrow, Spot remembered the day after the strike, when he and three other newsies had made a promise to meet. That meeting would take place in less than a year, but two would not attend. David and Racetrack had both died, and now only the two leaders were left. Former leaders, actually. Jack had renounced his sovereignty when he left for Santa Fe, and Spot had stopped being a newsie the day Racetrack died.   
  
Although, at the factory, Spot was once more a leader. Sure, the factory strike was much smaller than the newsies' had been, and they didn't have big rallies or throw rotten fruit at the managers, but it was still a strike, and Spot was in charge. He was one of the younger workers at the factory, and didn't have much seniority, as he had only been employed for about a year. Yet, when all the factories in New York but theirs had received ten-hour days, the workers had turned to him.   
  
At first, Spot's suggestion of a strike had seemed impossible, unthinkable. The workers would lose their jobs, and, for most of them, their only means of supporting their families. But as Spot told stories of the 1899 newsie rebellion, the workers had become excited, enthralled by the possibility that---just once---they could be in charge, not their managers. That, if only for a week, they would no longer be the lowest men on the totem pole of power.  
  
With Spot's help, that was exactly what had happened. The workers had become organized. It was the third day of the strike, and they now worked in shifts, picketing around the building or spreading strike news across New York, gaining support for their cause. Donations to the strike fund were meager, but combined they were enough to feed the workers and their families and buy paint and boards for signs.  
  
"Spot, we got a problem!" once of the workers yelled, interrupting Spot's reminiscence. At more than two yards tall, the worker towered about Spot's five feet and six inches, but he worshipped Spot as a leader: smarter, stronger, and more skilled. "We got strike-breakers!" the worker continued, pointing to the end of the block where a group of burly men had begun to gather.  
  
Spot turned to watch the strikebreakers' progress as they marched toward the first row of picketers. Silently, he walked up to them, extracting his sling-short from his back pocket with one hand. As the first strikebreaker approached the line, Spot drew a marble from another pocket, held it on his slingshot, and let go, hitting the man's jaw. He knew from experience that it was better to start the fight now than to wait and let the enemy make the first move.  
  
The man retaliated quickly, running toward Spot and swinging a clumsy fist at his jaw. Spot ducked, but another strikebreaker managed to knock down the worker next to Spot, and fights erupted along the picket line. Punches were thrown, shins were kicked, brass knuckles appeared, effectively bloodying noses and knocking unsuspecting victims unconscious. Spot darted through the crowd, helping when a worker needed it, cheering on his boys, occasionally shoving the head of his cane into a strikebreaker's stomach. From what he could see, the strikebreakers were better fighters but were outnumbered in people and desire by the factory workers. He could sense it now---the workers would win.  
  
"Hey, shortie!" a voice shouted, and Spot whipped around, ready to face his new opponent. As he did so, the man slung a brass-knuckled fist at Spot and narrowly missed as Spot leapt sideways, his reflexes kicking in at the last second. Spot replied with a kick that also missed as the man slid to his right. Another kick followed, striking the man's shin, but neither faltered. Slowly, the two young men became a whirlwind, a vicious fight surrounded by chaos.   
  
Gradually, Spot began to pull ahead. He landed more punches, struck harder, and, eventually, pushed his opponent to the ground. His hands latched around the man's neck as a small circle gathered around them. The other fights continued, but Spot's victory was the center of attention. Spot squeezed his hands together, feeling no pleasure, only purpose, in the murder he was prepared to commit.  
  
"Spot, move!" a voice shouted from somewhere in the crowd, a mere second too late. As Spot's conquest took his final arduous breath, another strikebreaker plunged a knife into Spot's back. Spot collapsed in a rush of scarlet blood, his enemy becoming his deathbed.  
  
  
  
Open the September 7, 1908, evening edition of The World to the obituaries, and you will read, in miniscule type at the bottom of the page, "Spot Conlon, 1883---1908. The King of Brooklyn."  
  
A/N: * apologizes to all the Spot fans for killing their favorite character * Sorry! But I'm happy because the only thing left is the epilogue! Yay! I'm actually going to finish this before Halloween! (I hope.) Reviews appreciated, as always. 


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